The Personal Advertisements
by Moon Raven2
Summary: Cas is strangely fascinated with seemingly random Personals ads, and finally one is too specific to be ignored. Post 8x23 Megstiel.


**a/n: **Well here it is. I've been working on this for a few hours now, off and on. I've started the bit where they meet, but not sure I want to continue. We shall see.

* * *

**Out of the doubt that fills my mind  
I somehow find**  
**You and I collide.**  
-Howie Day, "Collide"

He didn't know why he couldn't stop reading the Personals. It seemed foolish, especially when he had so much more to think about, but for some reason they brought him a vague sense of comfort. Even hope.

It had started with the first one about the nurse and light bondage. Interesting. He knew a nurse once. Well, not really a nurse. More a pretend nurse. But he was pretty sure that's what the ad meant anyway.

Next he clipped one with the title "Let Me Ruffle Your Feathers." That one brought back a series of pleasant memories.

The third one was simpler, and it came from the "Missed Opportunities" section:

_Me: Small but fierce. Tired of bullshit.  
You: Clueless._

He smiled as he slid the scissors through the paper and added it to the small cork board in his room. He wondered how long it would take Dean to comment on his growing collection. Dean rarely came into Cas' room—rarely did much of anything these days, truth be told—and part of Cas wished Dean _would_ tease him about it.

Later, a fourth. This time the last line caught his eye:

_If you're looking for love, angel cakes, keep reading._

It was the thirteenth advertisement that finally clued him in, and then only because it was so blatant:

_Angels fall down all the time. The world is an imperfect place. Quit whining about it and call me._

He blinked down at the little ad. His head tilted. How odd. He recognized the wording, strangely enough. She had once insisted he watch a film called _The Breakfast Club_. Had said it was a "rite of passage," which was strange since neither of them had gone to high school. Regardless, that's where the line had come from, with a few modifications, and…

Dean and told him what happened that night after he left with the angel tablet. Crowley had killed her. They had watched her die. Crowley (sniveling wreck that he had become, caught somewhere between human and demon and too afraid to commit to being either one) had confirmed it, and at this point the former King of Hell had no real reason to lie.

He was fooling himself. He always had been. This small obsession of his was more delusion. More…pointless dreaming. He sighed and opened his hand. The paper fluttered toward the trashcan, but at the last minute he changed his mind and lunged for it. His new human reflexes were far slower than he was used to, and he cracked his elbow against the desk as he stumbled.

With a grumble of complaint he retrieved the newspaper and rubbed his elbow. It would require ice. What a novel idea…and not in the fun way. He glared at the bit of newsprint in his hand as though it were the source of all his troubles.

Finally he dialed the number into his phone. It went to a voicemail box with a computerized message, and he was instantly disconcerted. He despised voicemail.

Hauling in a long, put-upon breath, he proceeded to leave one of the more awkward, rambling message in his long(ish) history of awkward, rambling messages.

* * *

The door slammed behind her and she set the locks from habit. She didn't think anyone was hunting her these days, what with Crowley out of commission (she still had her ear to the demon grapevine, so to speak) and the Winchesters busy with the sudden influx of angels—not that the Winchesters had bothered to hunt her _before_, but still. Underestimating them was a stupid mistake she'd never make again, and it was far better to be safe than sorry.

She kicked off her boots and flopped down on the bed. Opened the newspaper she'd bought across the street and scanned the Personals section. There it was. Her newest ad. If this one didn't get that moron's attention then he wasn't worth effort.

She rolled her eyes and tossed the paper aside.

She would never admit, of course, that she was worried about him. Ever since the night the angels fell she'd wondered. Was he somewhere out there, lost and alone and all stupidly human? Or had he somehow been behind it all (she had no doubt he had a _hand_ in it, of course, but that was different) and was now cooling his heels up in Heaven? The thought that one of those angel comets might have been him…well. She just refused to think about it, that's all.

Anyway, he'd probably been down here somewhere chasing after his pet humans. He might still be an angel, even. If he hadn't been upstairs when shit went down, then…

Whatever. It's not like he'd busted his ass trying to find her after that whole crypt debacle, so why was she stressing so hard about him now? Angels. Fuck 'em.

Yeah. Right. That's why she was avoiding her phone like it might give her the clap. Because it was so much fun calling into that stupid service and hearing a bunch of creeps answer her ads. There was only one creep she wanted to hear from, and he wasn't really a creep at all.

She bit off a sigh and flopped over onto her belly. No point in putting it off. The newest ad had been running a full 24 hours. It was time to check in.

She dialed the number and waited. Waded through the usual idiots with a grimace of disgust. Five messages in she paused.

Her expression morphed to one of stunned disbelief. Then relief. Then amusement. Angel or not, he was still a fucking moron.

* * *

_So what do you think, loves? Want to see them finally meet? Or is that too much payoff for us masochistic SPN fans?_

_PS: Reviews get you puppies and sugar cookies and a soothing drink._


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